Savich unfolded the single white sheet of paper. The same black block printing: FOR WHAT YOU DID YOU DESERVE THIS.

“I hope you’ve got some idea what that clown is talking about.”

Savich said, “Not a clue. Tell me you have the visitor who handed over the envelope to Briggs.”

“No, the guy walked away while Briggs was looking at the envelope. You know there are lots of tourists coming in this time of morning. Briggs called out, but the guy was gone, disappeared in the crowd. But we’ve got lots of good camera coverage of him, a close-up when he’s speaking to Briggs. You think he was the one who wrote it?”

“Since it isn’t possible to get into the lobby without a thorough security check, why not do it this way? Hey, I found this envelope, not a clue what it is or who left it.”

Roper said, “Would you like to have a look-see at this surveillance video?”

Savich nodded.

“Since he spoke to Briggs, we also have his voice on tape, nice and clear. He looked and acted like an ordinary guy, according to Briggs, but I wanted some of you experts to double-check it for us.” Roper paused, looked up at all the faces focused on him and Savich, not more than two feet outside of Savich’s office. “It looks like your people are already interested. I’ll get things set up in the conference room,” and Roper walked out, waving the disk at the agents as he passed them.

Savich read the note again:

FOR WHAT YOU DID YOU DESERVE THIS

He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and thought: What had he done? Exactly what did he deserve? It was clearly a threat, but from whom? It had been only two weeks since they’d brought down Ted Bundy’s mad daughter, Kirsten Bolger. There was her mother, her stepfather, and her aunt Sentra to think about. Anyone else? Well, there was the family of her lover and partner Bruce Comafield, but both families were solidly middle-class, with a great deal to lose. When he’d met with them after Comafield’s death and Kirsten’s capture, they’d been in a state of shock. Sometimes shocks like that upended a person’s whole world, but no, those folks just didn’t seem likely.

Who else? Behind his closed eyes, Savich saw a kaleidoscope of tumbled vivid memories of blood and death and brutal faces, too much and too many. We’re a failed species, he thought, not for the first time. He opened his eyes to see his wife, Sherlock, standing in front of him, her eyes on the open sheet of paper.

Sherlock said, “Denny’s got the DVD ready, said we might all want to see it. What’s going on? What’s in that letter?”

“It’s a weird threat. What I don’t like is that it was delivered personally. Come on, let’s have a look at the guy who gave it to Briggs in the lobby.”

He watched Sherlock shove a thick corking curl of hair behind her ear. He’d give it two seconds before another curl worked its way out of one of the clips and sprang forward. The clips never seemed to work very well. She said, “Everybody watched Denny come in and give you this envelope. Good thing you’re involving all of us, or you’d be mobbed in here.”

“That’s what Roper seemed to think. It shouldn’t take very long. We’ll see if that brainpower can figure something out.” She gave him a long assessing look, then turned and walked out of his office. He watched her walk in that no-nonsense stride, a traffic-stopper in those sexy black boots of hers. She was wearing her signature low-cut black pants and white blouse. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Could Sherlock be in danger because of something he’d done?

When Savich walked in with the envelope, Sherlock said, “Okay, Dillon, tell everyone what’s in the letter before we watch the video.”

Savich unfolded the single white sheet and said in an emotionless voice, “For what you did you deserve this. That’s it, nothing else. Now, let’s see what we’ve got, Denny.”

There were nine agents, including Shirley, a gum-chewing grandmother and the unit secretary, with bright red hair this week, and one of the two unit clerks who would bet on anything with you and usually win. Denny Roper hit play and they all leaned forward to watch the sharp, high-res picture. Lots of tourists in the security line, all of them talking, dozens of conversations overlapping. The two security guards behind Plexiglas greeting and questioning everyone, handing out IDs, a smooth, practiced routine. Roper paused the DVD. “It’s exactly nine-fifteen this morning. Here he comes.”

A man—or a woman; it was hard to tell—came through the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance ahead of a dozen or so tourists. He stood in line, speaking to no one. When he reached the Plexiglas, he handed the envelope to Briggs. He was wearing loose jeans, an FBI hoodie pulled up over his head, and sunglasses, all of which would have had to come off if he went through security, which he’d had no intention of doing. He, or she?